


Call Number

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e06 Mors Praematura, F/F, Imprisonment, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 20:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14776680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: Harold may have trapped her in this prison cell, but Root will be out in no time. His people are too easy to play against each other.





	Call Number

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekingoutfriday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingoutfriday/gifts).



> Thank you to my beta.

"This isn't our first prison visit. I remember you came to the mental hospital." 

Root threads her fingers through the metal grille of the folding door, and gazes down the darkened corridor ahead of her. She's eighty per cent certain Shaw is there, though there is no sound to betray her approach. Root doesn't have a lot to occupy her mind in this small space, and she's already memorised the daily movement of shadows in the library. There's a darker space in one aisle, between 553.2: Carbonaceous Materials and 553.8: Gems. It's not a tall shadow. 

Shaw doesn't answer, but then she wouldn't. Shaw doesn't give up intel for free. Root knows that. The Machine told her plenty in their brief time together, but by then Root already had a good grasp on Sameen Shaw. 

"I don't remember much from Hanford, not after you shot me, anyway. Though to be fair, things were already getting fuzzy before you got there. And after that, there were a lot of medications. But I know you were there. You took my pulse." She laughs, more uncertain than she wants to let on. "It's nice to know you cared." 

At Stonebridge, thanks to the thorazine, the air was thick with slow-moving ripples but Root could still pick Shaw's face from the crowd. She remembers reaching for her, drifting towards Shaw like a leaf on a stream. In the rec room, from Root's drugged perspective, Shaw blurred as she slammed Root down in a seat and sat beside her.

In the library, Root watches Shaw lurk and says, less bitterly than she means it, "You're not one for rescues, are you? I wasn't either, but I think that's changed now." 

The shadow peels off from the bookshelf and stomps away from Root's little prison. Root sighs, picks up a book and looks at the call number: 153.6. Mental processes: Communication. She flips it open and starts to read. 

\---

A day and two escape attempts later, Shaw comes to dress the electrical burn on Root's ankle. She's flanked by Harold's helper monkey, and her scowl at this insult makes Root laugh. Then Shaw pushes Root's pants up to her knee. Root sees goose bumps rise up on her own skin as Shaw props the leg against her hip. 

"I'm sorry about the stubble," Root says, leaning back on the chaise to give Shaw more room. "For some reason, Harold won't give me a razor." 

"Can't imagine why," says John. Root wonders why he's cranky, then remembers that technically she abducted Harold. John is taking a while to forgive that. He's so loyal. It's adorable. 

Shaw moves the anklet aside and Root flinches as the plastic brushes blisters. She can't move her leg because Shaw has it gripped tight – as if Root could do anything to hurt Shaw – but the pain makes her jerk reflexively. 

"Using this is bullshit," says Shaw. She gestures at the anklet. "She's the kind that would burn off her leg to get out." 

"That's why Harold didn't use a bear trap, Shaw." John is po-faced. Root's pretty sure he's making a joke. 

Shaw tries to manoeuvre an antiseptic swab under the anklet with a pair of forceps, but there's not much space. It's pretty clear Harold went for a snug fit. Root can see Shaw is frustrated – the way she's pinched her mouth thin and white means she really wants to smash something – but Root is touched at how carefully she holds her leg. It's nice, having Shaw's fingers spread wide against her naked calf. In a weird way, it's the safest she's felt in a while. She wriggles her toes, luxuriating in the contact. Shaw squeezes her leg hard to make her hold still, then tries a different angle with the swab, with no luck. 

"Damn it." Shaw is gritting her teeth. 

Root leans closer to whisper in her ear. "Don't believe what they told you in medical school. Your bedside manner is perfect."

Finally Shaw throws the swab and the forceps onto the table. "Take this damn thing off," she says. "Or shoot her, but she's no good to anyone with sepsis."

"You say the sweetest things," Root says. This witty response is lost, though, because Harold has appeared in the opening of the gate. He casts a long shadow, for someone who values invisibility. It's eerie the way everyone falls silent. Root files their expressions away for later consideration.

Harold is between Shaw and John with two uneven steps, and reaches for the anklet. There's a fingerprint reader just beside the catch; Root has had zero luck in exploiting any vulnerability there, but it falls open at Harold's brief touch. Root smiles sweetly at him, and remembers slashing his palm with a razor. She hopes the scar twinges now and then. 

"So, can we leave it off?" Shaw dresses wounds like a field surgeon: briskly and with little sympathy. Root fights the urge to squirm under her hands and concentrates instead on remaining still in this weird, charged tableau. 

Harold passes the anklet to John and points to Root's uninjured leg. John obliges by snapping it on and tightening the strap. 

"I understand your professional concern, Ms Shaw, but the anklet stays on." Harold says. "Ms Groves' involvement in our affairs is unavoidable at this moment, but I will not allow her to harm another person." He looks at Shaw and John. "Please don't forget she is not like us. Empathy is not in her repertoire." 

Root sees conflict play on Shaw's face and she can almost taste freedom. 

\--- 

It's late in the afternoon a few days later and there's a shadow between the shelves again. 

"534.5: Subsonic and ultrasonic vibrations," says Root. "What's shaking your foundations, Shaw? Or are we talking literal vibrations?" 

Shaw doesn't answer, but she steps closer to the metal fence. She isn't easy to read, but Root has made a study of Sameen Shaw's expressions lately. Today, she'd say that Shaw didn't sleep well last night. Shaw's fingertips twitch, reaching for the weapon she's not allowed to bring close to the cage.

Root decides she's taking pity on Shaw today, even though she's the reason Root's here right now. 

"I posed as a psychic once, just after I left home," she says, and she leans against the metal fence, which bells outwards with her weight. Not enough to trigger the charge in the anklet, but enough to make Shaw take a step back. 

"How'd that go?" Shaw is angry, and the words come out clipped. 

Root shrugs. "It was too easy; I got bored. Nobody with any intelligence likes stealing candy from a baby. " She wriggles her hand through a gap in the wire and holds it flat. "I'll show you how it's done, if you cross my palm with silver." 

Shaw carefully steps back from the fence. "I'm not crossing anything with you, woman."

Root rests her chin on her knuckles instead. "Fortune telling is basically just reading body language and translating it into words. People don't realise the amount of data their bodies are dripping all over the place." She's losing Shaw's attention, she realises. 

"You haven't told Harry about your different world view," she says in a rush, then mimics Harold's tone. "'Empathy is not in her repertoire.' He can be so pompous. And you're worried that when he finds out your sociopathic tendencies, there'll be a cage like this just for you." She flutters her eyelashes. "Maybe we can be cellies. I promise to play nice." 

Shaw rolls her eyes and turns to leave, but Root knows that hunch of her shoulders. She has Shaw's ear now, and that will let her exploit Shaw's vulnerabilities. 

\---

The missions come and the missions go: Root can hear them talking and arguing. For a helper monkey, John gives a lot of back talk. Root rolls her eyes and concentrates on escape plans. Whatever Harold has planted in the anklet is too sensitive for any of her attempts to bypass the circuitry. Tampering with it only brings Harold to the edge of her perimeter to stare at her in wordless analysis that makes Root chafe. 

"Why not just put a camera in it? Upskirting suits a shut-in like you!" she snaps at him in pointless rage. She should be ashamed, but she's seething today. The Machine has plans and Root needs to carry them out. Harold knows how important it is that his creation have agency in the physical world. It disgusts Root that he would let petty emotions like jealousy get in the way of great work.

Harold regards her long enough that she's squirming at saying something so crass and obvious, then he walks away. Root throws a book at the metal gate, and it clatters to the ground. 

"You're mad at him, but I'm the one who put out your lights." Shaw talks through a mouthful of food, standing in the 620's. Engineering and applied operations. 

Root shrugs and gets up off the chaise and picks up the book she threw. "You didn't pat me down and throw me in here." She turns back to look at Shaw with a come-hither gaze. "Or did you? That throws an entirely different light on things." 

"Don't be assy," Shaw says. She strides forward and pushes a paper bag between the bars of the gate. "Here. I bought you some real food. I'm not saying he's wrong. I'm just saying that you shouldn't let him press your buttons like that." 

Root takes the parcel and smiles, because she's got Shaw, she's got her. It won't take much more to generate sympathy. Poor Harry. He's too easy to use as a villain in this story. The package is warm and smells… mustardy. When she turns it over, there's a thermal printed label stuck to the bag, describing the contents of the sandwich inside. Root puts her fingers on it to tear it open and pauses for a moment to read the automatically generated barcode number. It's too long for a regular barcode. Her mind translates the cipher automatically: STAY. WAIT. Her fingers close on the paper. Damp, it starts to tear. 

"What?" says Shaw, still chewing. "Don't tell me you're a vegetarian. I don't know if I can work with a vegetarian." 

Root doesn't even have the brain space to rejoice in the fact that Shaw already assumes they're working together. Harold was right. The Machine wants her here. Joy and frustration are mixing together and it's an incompatible mix. 

The Machine chose Root, and Root knows the magnitude of the trust behind that choice. It chafes at her, though, Harold being right. She wishes she could be graceful about this, she wishes she hadn't teased Harold about the Machine loving both of them equally. She realises now just how much she wants Harold to suffer consequences for what he's done to her, and that it's never going to happen. 

Whatever Root's face shows right now, it's weird enough to stop Shaw eating. "You okay?" she asks. 

Root nods, still holding her wrapped sandwich. "I finally understand that Mom is always right, even when you don't want her to be." 

Shaw shrugs. "Honestly, I think it depends on the mom." She takes another bite of her sandwich. As she gets to the end of her own lunch, she starts to eye the package in Root's hand. 

Root looks at Shaw, lets the decision settle inside her. She's staying put. She can do that, for the Machine. "Come here," she says, and squeezes her arm through the narrow opening of the gate. She holds the sandwich loosely, like a baited trap. 

Shaw steps closer, her expression dubious. "If this is your stupid escape plan," she says. 

Root laughs, a little unsteady. "I don't make stupid escape plans." If Shaw gets any closer, Root will be able to brush her cheek with one finger. Just one more step forward… 

Shaw can obviously see what Root's intentions are, because she moves fast as lightning to snatch the sandwich back. She still lets Root's fingertips hover in front of her face for a moment, but she grins a wide smile. "Watch out," she says. "I bite." 

Root smiles back, and imagines all the plans that must be in action around her, and how the Machine has factored Root into them. "I'm counting on it."


End file.
